


The Chamomile Incident

by Tennyo



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bedsharing, Bitcher, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Or romantic, Yes that's the ship name, an injured butt, can be platonic, homosocial intimacy, soft, your choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22140805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tennyo/pseuds/Tennyo
Summary: When Geralt gets a mild injury, Jaskier rubs chamomile salve on the affected area
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 283
Collections: Best Geralt





	The Chamomile Incident

**Author's Note:**

> If you have watched the show, You Know what this is about.  
> Note: I have not played the games, but I have used the fandom wiki as a resource.  
> Books:I have read both "Prequel" books, Last Wish and Sword of Destiny.  
> And after SoD, I've become obsessed with bedsharing.  
> If you've read the book You Know Why.

It’s Summer in Temeria and Geralt is knee-deep in fetid, muddy waters at the edge of a marsh near Dorian, Southwest of Vizima. He’s been hired to find whatever has been decimating local wildlife, and the occasional villager. The old cemetery is too far South for the typical hauntings and creatures to be found there, but swampy areas have a tendency to attract various nasty specimens that prey on the living. 

His main problem right now are swarming gnats, and mosquitoes hungry for his blood. The longer he wades through the morass, pests biting at him mercilessly, the more he wishes he’d taken a different combination of potions. But too many at once have increasingly negative effects, so he deals with his poison immunity and increased agility and endurance, which will help him with most of the typical nasties. 

As the sun lowers in the sky, shadows lengthen and the colors turn more golden. The smell does not improve. When Geralt starts to head back to Roach and leave, thinking he will come back after dark and try again, he hears a wet rustling. There, by a half-dead, mossy tree, some plants sway unnaturally, as there is no breeze. 

Slowly, to avoid making noise, Geralt creeps toward the movement. He recognizes the danger just before the Archespore attacks with its powerful jaw-like leaves. Dodging he swings his sword and rolls toward a patch of moss, gesturing the Igni sign, which sets the monster plant alight. 

Geralt has the misfortune of having rolled toward a patch of even more Archespores. While immature and smaller than normal, they are still deadly, especially in number. One squirts its venom, and Geralt ducks, avoiding all but some spray on his trousers. He better work fast, before it eats through the leather. A few more swings of his sword and some well-timed Igni signs, and the area where the Archespores had been growing is singed and smoking. 

This could have been dealt with by some industrious villagers with torches, he thinks as he inspects his trousers. The left side of the thigh and part of his seat have been chewed through by the acidic venom. Weariness signals that his potions are beginning to wane, so Geralt makes his way to the edge of the marsh. 

Misfortune strikes again as he slips on a spot of slimy algae, and lands arse-first into a patch of some sort of _Solanum_ relative, and the thorny leaves pierce his posterior. “Devil’s Thorns” indeed.

As he limps toward where he left Roach, she snorts and tosses her mane. “Not another comment from you,” he admonishes, digging through the saddle bags for an old but clean rag he can wrap around his pierced backside. There are some thorny spines that will have to be removed, although those may be best removed in private, with the use of a mirror. 

His ride back to Dorian is painful, even after adjusting in his saddle so that he isn’t resting on his injured arse. The potions have nearly worn off, and exhaustion looms. The sun has set, and the light is bleeding out of the sky as he reaches the inn which is conveniently placed near the city gate. Foresight had garnered him a room with included food and drink for the night, from his negotiations with his employer. Updates of his mission will have to wait for morning, however. 

While he skulks along the periphery of the main room, heading for the stairs, Geralt hears the strumming of a lute and the familiar tenor of Jaskier, singing a lewd ditty. Sighing heavily, Geralt tries to reach the stairs undetected. Unfortunately, the song ends with an exuberant “Geralt!” from the bard, who comes rushing over.

“What brings you to Dorian then?” asks Jaskier.

“Bad luck, apparently,” grumbles Geralt as he limps up the stairs. 

Jaskier finally glimpses at the rag tied around Geralt, and the flecks of blood seeping through. He states the obvious, “Oh, you’re injured!” before rushing to Geralt’s side, assisting him with the climb. 

Once in Geralt’s room, the Witcher unties the rag, drops his swords and kit at the foot of the bed, and collapses face-first across the quilt. At the sight of Geralt’s ruined trousers and pierced bum, Jaskier gasps in horror. 

“What in the world have you encountered this time?”

Geralt turns his head to speak. “Monsters.”

With a humph, Jaskier gets a closer look. “What monsters have thorns?” he asks.

Geralt simply grunts and reaches for his potions.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Jaskier pulls them out of the Witcher’s reach. “You’ve obviously already had enough of that, and the effects are fading, aren’t they?”

Dammit, when did the bard become so perceptive? Geralt grunts an affirmative. 

“Are there any ill effects of which I should be aware, other than what rest can’t fix?” He receives a negative grunt. 

“Lucky for you, I can help remove the remaining thorns, and have in my possession a lovely chamomile salve which will soothe the wounds.”

This prompts Geralt to turn his head far enough to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

“I had a mild rash,” Jaskier mumbles. “But anyway, let’s get what’s left of these trousers off of you, then I can tend to your bottom.”

It’s not often Geralt is conscious while someone else divests him of his clothing. Well, at least when sex isn’t involved. He assists when necessary, pulling his belt loose before Jaskier removes his boots then tugs down his trousers. Deft fingers pluck about half a dozen thorns from his posterior, then smoothes on a salve which indeed smells of chamomile, beeswax, and coconut oil, along with some other herbs he can’t be bothered to name.

After the salve is applied, Jaskier announces he is all done, but then rummages through his pack, before slipping what feels like linen britches up Geralt’s legs. “What?” Geralt murmurs, half asleep at this point. 

“Oh, just a spare pair I keep, for when I want to feel fancy. They’re clean, and will keep you from smearing the salve all over yourself and the bedding, Geralt. Up you go.”

Geralt pulls the britches up the rest of the way, and clumsily ties them off, before settling back on the bed. There is a hum of satisfaction as Jaskier packs his things away, and comes around to survey Geralt sprawled across the bedding. 

“Do you have room for one more? I’m afraid by the time I arrived, all the rooms were taken, and I had planned on finding the company of a willing lady of the evening.” Jaskier looks at him hopefully, like a puppy. 

With another grunt of effort, Geralt arranges himself so there’s room for Jaskier as well. This causes the bard to break into a wide grin. 

“Excellent! I’ll just let the inkeep know we need an extra blanket, and a breadboard with cheese and some ale for you, should you awaken with hunger or thirst.” 

Jaskier has his hand on the door latch when Geralt speaks. “If you sing about this, I will kill you.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less, my friend.”

Soon after the door closes, Geralt falls asleep. 

Some time in the middle of the night, Geralt wakes. The room is dark, and there’s a warm presence breathing steadily beside him. Jaskier is on his back, snoring softly, the spare blanket he’d promised covering them both. Geralt huffs and smiles softly. Then he realizes he’s parched, and hasn’t had any supper. Propped on his elbows, Geralt turns to see a low-burning candle weakly illuminating a mug and a board of bread, cheese, and fruit. 

Slowly, as to not wake Jaskier, he slides off the bed, adjusting his borrowed, linen under-britches. The ale is strong, albeit a little flat from sitting out. He eats everything, and is even able to sit, thanks to both his healing and Jaskier’s salve. 

Meal consumed, Geralt quietly straightens out his things, mentally notes which potions he’s low on, and cleans his sword with what’s left of his trousers. He will need another pair. The colorful fabrics that Jaskier typically wears are not an option. Once those tasks are complete, Geralt gingerly crawls back onto the bed and avoids waking Jaskier, although the other man does roll over in his sleep, facing Geralt, hands tucked under his chin still smelling faintly of chamomile. 

Dilating his eyes, Geralt takes in the features of his friend’s face, relaxed in sleep. A lock of hair falls loose, the curl catching at the bridge Jaskier’s nose, making it twitch. With a fond hum, Geralt brushes it away, then tucks the blanket over Jaskier’s shoulder, before closing his eyes to sleep some more. He doesn’t often get the chance to sleep under a roof, and Geralt plans on taking advantage of it.

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone waiting for me to pick up my Ineffable Husbands WIP,  
> SOON (tm)
> 
> If you liked this, let me know because I have some ideas for more soft men sharing intimate moments.


End file.
